The Real Hero
by nezumistiel
Summary: 3x21-3x24 coda: based on the mid-season promo and Tyler Hoechlin's comment about Stiles and Derek being willing to "take a bullet for each other."


**3x21-3x24 coda:** based on the mid-season promo and Tyler Hoechlin's comment about Stiles and Derek being willing to "take a bullet for each other."

_"There are men who bloom in chaos. You call them heroes or villains, depending on which side wins the war, but until the battle call they are but normal men who long for action, who lust for the opportunity to throw off the routine of their normal lives like a cocoon and come into their own. They sense a destiny larger than themselves, but only when structures collapse around them do these men become warriors."_ -Guillermo Del Toro & Chuck Hogan, "The Fall"

* * *

Darkness is such a welcome thing once you allow it to encompass you, allow it to fill you with its power and strangely comforting sense of cold reassurance. The shadow, that's what it was- the mirror image with its lifeless eyes and hollow shell of a body. That's what power was, yes? That's where his strength was coming from, filling his veins, creating tendrils of heat that sent ripples of pleasure across his skin.

Stiles held his arms out and tilted his head back, closing his eyes, and breathed in the heavy, lingering scent of wolf. _Derek Hale_. He couldn't help but laugh. How had he been friends with someone so weak? An alpha without a single ounce of heroism? Ha! If he wanted to, he could easily bring the monster to his knees whenever he wished and finally put him out of his misery.

_He is nothing but a joke,_ a deep voice purred, echoing in Stiles' head, tickling the tender patch of skin at the nape of his neck. The nogitsune, breathing words of wisdom into his ear as it always did, speaking in the thundering yet comforting voice of a benevolent god. He inhaled sharply and coughed. The horrid odor Derek had left in his wake had become suddenly pungent, burning his nostrils and the roof of his mouth.

_You see the truth now, Stiles_, his companion continued, _how truly foolish you have been. And now, we will take care of things that should have been taken care of _long_ ago._Stiles nodded slowly and smirked. He eagerly cracked his neck, savoring the brief shot of resulting pain that traveled down his spine. Oh, power, so sweet! His shadow, his _friend_, was right: he had, in fact, been a fool.

He lowered his arms back down to his sides and swept his gaze around the room, searching for any signs of Derek's current whereabouts. That's why he was here after all. The shadow had spoken, and the Hale must be found and eradicated.

"I should've known you'd come for me."

Stiles froze. _Speak of the devil_. He couldn't help but be a little proud of the beast. He certainly hadn't expected him to show his face. Although, Stiles still deemed him unworthy of being in his presence, the presence of a thing of power and beauty. _The void._

"But the real question is: did Stiles come with you?" Derek paused, clearly waiting for some kind of response. Stiles, of course, refused to answer. "Tell me, how hard was it to bring him along for the ride?"

Stiles scoffed, reluctantly sparing a glance over his shoulder. The wolf stood patiently, dark circles beneath his sad, forest green eyes. The tilt of his lips, caught somewhere between a grim frown and furious scowl, seemed to strike a nerve. _Wait, what the fuck was he doing here? Why did Derek look so_-

Choking, god, where had the oxygen gone? He couldn't breathe, darkness creeping along the edges of his vision. _He is the enemy, Stiles, _his shadow insisted, the unmistakable brush of razor sharp teeth ghosting across the jut of his collar bone bringing him back to his senses.

"Stiles-"

"You," he choked, raising a shaky finger to point accusingly at the monstrosity on the other side of the room, "_you _aren't supposed to be a weak spot. You are supposed to be the easiest kill!"

Derek shook his head, desperation etched into his features. Such pain and agony, oh, it was intoxicating. He could have that, could absorb it, if only he took a couple steps closer and _took it_. He deserved to have it, after all. "You don't want to kill me," Derek croaked, his voice cracking uncharacteristically on the final word.

Stiles couldn't stop the laugh from bubbling up his throat, unleashing a loud and possibly manic cackle, tears clouding his vision before slowly gliding down his cheeks. The man had clearly lost it! He- _they_- would kill him without any remorse. He didn't deserve the minute amount of sympathy they still somehow possessed.

"My, my, my," Stiles chuckled, "I never expected you to be t_his _ignorant! Although, I suppose it explains your demotion."

More pain, fantastic! The wolf looked as if he may faint at any moment from all of the anguish, the torture of seeing an old friend finally unearthing the truth. So ripe for the taking, right there! He had to take, he _needed_ to feel it for himself.

"I'm going to help you, Stiles," he cried, eyes wild with some emotion he and the shadow no longer recognized, "I won't let it have you."

Light, oh no, not again. Stiles felt his knees weakening, ready to give out at any moment. _Derek! He _wouldn't_ kill- _

"No!" he screamed, struggling to block out the incessantly annoying voice that continued to interrupt his thoughts, the one that stupidly believed it still had a say in the matter. "No!"

Derek flinched and took several steps back, watching Stiles as if he were a coiled snake, poised to strike at any moment. The pain was quickly giving way to fear. Oh, but fear always circled back around to pain again, and that was the beauty of the vicious cycle, was it not?

"Stop!"

Stiles inhaled deeply without turning to face the source of the new voice. The hunter- _the Argent_. Well, if anyone would be wise enough to plot out Stiles' next course of action, it would be him.

"Delightful," Stiles purred, fingers twitching at his sides, aching to reach out and cause the agony he craved. "I suppose I didn't give you enough credit, Mr. Argent."

He didn't even need to turn around to know a gun was leveled at his head. The hunter, unlike the wolf, had some sense and knew what he was up against. Killing him, they had decided, would be nearly as fun as killing the monster.

"Yeah, I guess not," the hunter growled, voice dripping with disdain and pure disgust, "but then again, your kind never really thinks these kinds of things through, do they?"

Ah, humans, always so caddy in the face of death. Stiles slowly turned to face the other man, to look into his wide, horrified eyes before delivering the final blow. Watching the life go out of his eyes would be a pleasure.

"And that is where you are gravely mistaken," he growled, tilting his head to the side, gazing at the dark, hollow barrel of the gun as if it were a long lost friend. The weapon soothed him with its promise, the promise of sinking back into the shadows once again. Toying around with the humans certainly held an appeal but only for a little while. Once the exhilarating thrill associated with the chaos they inevitably caused faded away, they were no longer important. And the human world became nothing more than a sick joke and a pathetic home to a species of weak, defenseless creatures.

"I'm not letting you walk out of here alive," the Argent vowed, ocean blue eyes narrowed in concentration. He didn't appear to be as afraid as he should be. Well, they would have to fix that.

"Usually, I would let you give it a try. Just for the fun of it!" Stiles trilled, grinning widely, "sadly, I'm not feeling very… generous today. And, to be honest, I would rather just get this over with. So"- he gestured at Derek, ignoring the murderous glare the wolf was currently giving him- "I think I'll kill the both of you and leave. What do you think?"

The bastard had the nerve to _laugh_. Yes, they would gladly kill him first. The monster was, surprisingly, being well-behaved at the moment. Although he didn't seem pleased by the turn of events, he remained quiet. _Like a well-trained pet_, Stiles thought fondly.

"I don't think so," the hunter chuckled, subtly tightening his grip on the rifle, finger poised to pull the trigger at any second. Of course, he would be nothing if he didn't possess the firearm.

"Then do it," Stiles cooed, raising his hands above his head, "shoot me."

The hunter's eyes widened. He obviously didn't understand their kind as well as he had claimed. They would do _anything_ to be reunited with the deep, dark depths of the void. It was his one true home- not the body of a skinny teenage boy.

"You heard me," he snarled, unable to keep the anger from seeping into his tone. "Shoot. Me."

"Don't!" Now the wolf chooses to speak up! And with such passion… strange. When he had initially joined with the boy, he had thoroughly examined each of his relationships, checking to see what they had come to expect of Stiles. Derek's interactions with the boy hadn't seemed any more significant than the others. As a matter of fact, at first glance, he had appeared to be the least important connection Stiles had. But now… what was this? Why was he standing up for a teenage boy he merely tolerated for the sake of the True Alpha, Scott McCall?

"Derek, stop," the hunter urged, flashing a glare in the monster's direction, "this needs to be done."

"No, it doesn't have to be this way!" Derek cried with enough desperation to, yet again, jostle something inside of Stiles. The room spun, furniture careening around him as if he were suddenly caught in the middle of a vortex. But this, this was what falling felt like. He couldn't possibly be falling- the shot had not been fired yet.

"Enough-"

"Chris!"

_Boom!_

A blur, every second bleeding together into one indistinguishable mass of activity, outstretched limbs and human screams, chaos in its purest form. And yet it held no appeal for once. The bullet sailed across the room, but, instead of lodging itself in Stiles' chest, it somehow found its way into the skin of another. _No._

Hesitantly, Stiles opened his eyes, finding a horrific scene he had never anticipated. The wolf stood between the still smoking barrel of the hunter's rifle and him, body slouched over, head bowed. Blood stained the back of his shirt, focused around a small hole at the center of his spine, encircled by flecks of the offensively red substance. He wanted to look away, to be anywhere else, but neither wish could be fulfilled.

_Stiles_- but the voice didn't understand and it never would. The shadow knew many things, knew everything there was to know about power and the influence evil had on the human race. Human emotion, however, was completely uncharted territory. No, the nogitsune was no longer welcome. It couldn't exist in the presence of this new surge of emotions and sensations.

It snarled, it fought, with teeth bared and claws extended. _You will never- we will never-_ broken whimpers piercing through his skull, becoming quieter and quieter, until the cacophony of inhuman growling reached a dull and easily avoidable murmur, background noise.

How the hell had he gotten here? And why the _fuck_ did Derek look like he had been shot?

"Derek?" Stiles whispered, peering at the gaping wound in shock. This couldn't be real. Hell, with the way his dreams had been lately, it would only make sense that he was having another sick, twisted nightmare. Yeah, that had to be it.

"Shit!" That was Allison's dad's voice… but how…

Stiles lunged forward, nearing slipping in the disgusting and steadily growing pool of blood circling the wounded werewolf. He nearly collapsed at the sight of it, mustering up enough willpower to stifle his distaste until he could figure out what the hell had happened.

Sweat dripped down Derek's face, pooling in the hollow of his collar bone, covering every inch of exposed skin. It looked like something straight from a horror film, tinged with the dark red tint of blood. His lips were slightly parted, his usually glistening white teeth stained with the same hideous red liquid trickling down his arms. God, oh God, why wasn't the damn thing healing? Derek was a werewolf, goddammit, he should be _healing_.

"Stiles..."

Stiles froze, fingers twisted in the soft fabric of Derek's heather gray henley. Of course. Allison's dad had shot Derek- the son of a bitch had finally gone and done it.

"You," he bellowed, nostrils flared, "you _shot_ _him_?"

The hunter didn't reply immediately, settling for an uncomfortable and heavy silence instead. Stiles opened his mouth to shoot another accusation his way only to be interrupted by the other man's shaky, broken voice.

"I… that bullet wasn't meant for him," he choked, "it was meant for… you. For the… nogitsune."

"You lying piece of-"

"No."

_Derek_. Stiles gaped, hope surging through his veins as the werewolf's sad green eyes peered blearily up at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips. This whole situation was so royally fucked up. Stiles wanted to vomit, to cry, to remove the bullet from the wounded man's chest and find some way to bury it in his own chest instead.

"Derek, God, are you going to be okay? Jesus Christ, this bastard finally found an excuse to kill you, and I never thought he'd actually do it, but here he is, and here you are, and-"

"Stiles, please," Derek murmured, chuckling weakly, "it's okay. I… I'm not sure if I'll make it out of this one, but… you need to know. Why I… why I did it."

"Did what?" Stiles wailed, quickly losing his patience and any semblance of control he had left, "I don't understand! God, I hate this, I hate having to my friends get hurt! I'm s_ick_ of it! Derek-"

"I jumped out in front of the bullet, Stiles," Derek interrupted softly, reaching a shaky hand up to grip Stiles' wrist, squeezing it gently, "I saved your life."

_No._ Why, why would he do that? He had known Stiles long enough to know he hated the idea of others putting themselves in harm's way for his sake. No one deserved to die while risking their life for him. He simply wasn't worth it. God, what the hell had Derek been thinking? He couldn't live with this, with the knowledge that the werewolf had died _for him_.

"Why?" Stiles whimpered, the unmistakably salty taste of tears lingering on his lips as he spoke. "_Why_?"

Derek laughed, the mangled sound unlike any laugh Stiles had ever heard. Blood bubbled up on his lips, trickling down his chin, dripping onto his shirt. Wrong, wrong, so _fucking wrong._ He needed to run, to flee, to get as far away as possible. He couldn't watch the life leave Derek's eyes- it would end him.

"Because, Stiles," he confessed, "because… you're the real hero."

Silence. Slow motion, each movement, everything happening at an agonizingly slow speed. Derek's eyes fluttered shut and his body went limp, collapsing on Stiles' crouched body, engulfing him in the sickening, coppery smell of blood and the lingering musky scent of Derek.

For several seconds, Stiles seemed to forget how to breathe. Air, oh, but where had the oxygen gone? His longs, God, those stupid pieces of shit were supposed to let him breathe- why weren't they doing their job? Of course, he didn't need to breathe anymore. He had killed someone. No, not by his own hand, but it might as well be.

Numb… yeah, that was the word. He had never really understood the term, but it made sense now. He couldn't feel a thing, not a single godforsaken thing. Well, there was pain, but even that didn't seem to process. Like his lungs, his brain appeared to be taking a break. Maybe it needed a chance to recharge and process what had just happened. Stiles certainly knew he needed to do the same.

"Stiles… are you…?"

"I'm not the fucking nogitsune," Stiles whispered, tightening his hold on Derek's sagging body, "but you'll think I'm still one here in a few seconds if you don't help me take Derek to Deaton _right now_."

Surprisingly, the hunter didn't doubt the sincerity in Stiles' tone. He pocketed the rifle- such an ugly thing, Jesus Christ- and ran to the wounded werewolf's side, crouching beside Stiles.

"Well… let's get him to the car."

* * *

Stiles couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop moving, flinching, incredibly restless throughout the entirety of his road trip into hell. The Argents' car seemed far smaller than it had in the past, as if it had gone from being a full-sized SUV to a two-door sedan. Oh, and the air conditioning must have been broken because the interior was fucking stifling. He'd probably be cooler if he had been crammed in an oven.

"Stiles… I know you don't want to hear me talk so… I won't," the hunter sighed, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his anxious companion in the passenger seat, "but, I do have one question."

God, he was so done with questions. Frankly, he was done with everything, but, at the same time, he didn't really care anymore so why not answer? The prick didn't deserve an honest answer, but Stiles refused to stoop to his level.

"Shoot," he reluctantly conceded, turning to stare out the window, watching the trees fly past.

"Well, I just wondered… why are you helping him? I mean, you two always seemed to hate each other. What changed?"

Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. Well, he sure as hell had wasted his question. He could've asked how he'd managed to shake the nogitsune off or why he couldn't seem to remember anything that had happened in the past 72 hours and yet he went with _this_?

"Well, Chris," he sighed, using the hunter's first name in an attempt to strike a nerve, "it's simple."

He paused, hit by a sudden wave of overwhelming emotion. He really hated his life sometimes.

"Because _he's_ the real hero."


End file.
